Cut and Tear
by Hawki
Summary: F1 Oneshot: Elektra's target was M. Was there any reason that Bond had to die?


**Cut and Tear**

"This is a risky plan."

"Don't you think I'm aware of this?"

"Of course. As I've stated, the mercenaries know to go after this agent of yours. But even so, it's high in the mountains. Bullets can hit targets that they're not intended for. If I might suggest, if you want this man dead, there's a hundred better ways to-"

"I've made up my mind. I'll do my job. Now you do yours."

"…yes, Miss King."

Elektra terminated the connection with a sigh. _Idiot_. That was the only way to describe her contact. Not only was he questioning her orders in an operation that was running against the clock, in the midst of a separate operation that involved the theft of a nuclear warhead of all things, but he'd actually used her surname over the communique. She trusted Davidov to keep the line secure. The chances of anyone listening in were remote. But MI6 was already was breathing down on her, and even while she would be the last suspect in M's mind, the attention was still unwanted. Bullets could find unintended targets. So could the British secret intelligence service. A new millennium was near, and electronic data would be the new battlefield. Even after the world would be changed if Renard came through.

But the 21st century could wait. Right now, she had different priorities. Like suiting up for a pipeline survey in the mountains.

"Miss King."

She glanced at Gabor as he brought her a transponder that she put in her ski-suit pocket. It was a way for the mercs to track her location, and consequently, stay away from her.

"Thank you Gabor." She smiled – right here, right now, "Miss King" was a term she was quite happy with.

He nodded and left. But not before giving her a look that said "this is a risky plan, and I don't think you should do it."

But still she suited up. And looked out the window over the oilfield that King Industries had the rights to. It might seem strange to suit up for cold weather in the searing heat of Azerbaijan. But necessity dictated as such, and-

 _Is this even necessary at all?_

She paused with her zipper. Subconsciously, she brought a hand to her ear – or rather, what was left of her ear after she'd mutilated it to send to dear old daddy all those years ago. She always kept it covered – she was beautiful. It was an advantage she knew she possessed, and mutilated ears didn't help with that.

 _Is it necessary?_

Renard had asked her that. But it was a different question this time. Not "is it necessary to cut off your ear?" Not "is it necessary to go up into the mountains when mercs are going to be shooting at you?" But "does James Bond really have to die?"

 _Shit._

Not only second thoughts, but second thoughts that involved a full name.

 _Shit!_

She sat down and began adjusting the laces of her boots. Wondering how the hell this had happened.

Well, M wasn't stupid, that was a given. A cruel, conniving, cow of a woman who'd had her father in her thrall for years, but not stupid. And in the midst of that non-stupidity, they'd made the connection that her father's lapel pin had been swapped for a detonator that had sent Robert King to the hell that he deserved. Her father had paid, M would pay. But there was no reason for James Bond to pay. After all, he'd even been so kind as to deliver the explosive to MI6 and end her father's life for her. Lack of intention aside, she supposed she owed him that.

She kept tying her laces. And there was…something else. She could admit that much. Admit that James Bond, a.k.a. 007, a.k.a. the most dangerous assassin the world had seen in the 20th century (according to Davidov's sources at least), was rather handsome. And not just that, but charming even. Lesser men might have reacted to her barbs. Lesser men might have even taken the hint to shove off, or simply do the bare minimum of duty. Not volunteer to go skiing at a moment's notice as part of some Lancelot complex.

She rose to her feet and looked at one of the helicopters clear some nearby forest for the pipeline. Cuting and tearing apart the line. She'd cut away old childish fantasies. She'd cut away a piece of her own body. There'd be nothing to stop her from cutting away this chaff that had walked into this mill.

"Ready Elektra?"

She looked around. _Elektra_. Really. She'd have delivered a retort if he didn't look so…suave, in his ski-gear. How the hell anyone could look good in ski-gear Elektra didn't know, but somehow Mr Bond managed it.

"Mister Bond," she said. "Are you sure you haven't dressed too warmly?"

"Oh no, of course not. This is just breaking the ice."

Breaking the ice. She couldn't help but smile. It wasn't even that good a joke. Grabbing her skis, she began walking. The sooner they were out of here and in less hot…as in, warm, as in…less cold, weather, the better.

 _He'll be dead then._

"You sure you're up to this?" she asked. Half hoping that he'd back out. Half hoping that she'd have to call the mercs off, saving her private fund three million pounds and the death of a man who, whatever his faults, didn't deserve to die.

"Always," he said. "I like to think of it as a holiday."

"Have you been many places?"

"Oh, here and there. Shoot in, shoot out. Usually, it's quite a blast."

And she laughed. Actually laughed. Not even Renard could make her laugh. And-

 _Enough._

This had to happen. They were already at the helicopter, and James wouldn't be turning back. A new world beckoned, and a sizable chunk of it would be hers.

And yet, as Bond smirked at her, she wondered.

Wondered if the world was truly enough.


End file.
